


Not friends

by n1a1u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Sexual Fantasy, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n1a1u/pseuds/n1a1u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has good imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Не друзья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135243) by [n1a1u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n1a1u/pseuds/n1a1u). 



> It's a translation. If you want to help me make it better, please tell me.

Mycroft reaches for a plate of biscuits and thinks that after the divorce Greg seemed changed.

He has stopped lingering at Scotland Yard but also cannot be found at his home watching television. Greg goes on a date with bright extraordinary women but none of them stay with him for a long. Twice a week he plays football with his friends, works out in the gym regularly and never misses Arsenal home games.

Greg says they are friends. Mycroft could argue but somehow always keeps silent. Mycroft Holmes doesn't have friends, never had. He is like that. Greg is a unique anomaly in his life and Mycroft all the time waits when he realizes and stops calling.

They are drinking tea on the terrace of a cafe not far from Mycroft's office. Greg just last night returned to London. He chose rather to spend his holiday with his brother's family in his native county of Somerset then go abroad.

“Lying around alone on a beach? I would have died there from boredom!” Greg theatrically rolls his eyes. “And where are you planning to go?”

 _It would be nice to Antarctica_ , thinks Mycroft and dabs sweat from his upper lip with a napkin. But aloud he says, “I haven't thought about it yet. If you remember I have little tolerance for heat.”

“Then let's skip across to Iceland next summer.” Greg winked him conspiratorially. “Iceland is the best place for the Iceman,” he is fooling around, mimicking a voice of advertising of a tour operator.

“Let’s do it.”

Mycroft answers without any hesitation because he doesn't believe in the seriousness of the proposal. Not that he thinks Greg is a frivolous man but who voluntarily agrees to spend a holiday in the country of ice together with Mycroft? It’s just a harmless joke. Greg tries to support him and Mycroft perceives it accordingly.

“I taught Joseph swim. Because it's abnormal, isn’t it?! He is already an adult lad, lives near the coast and is afraid of water.”

Mycroft has an excellent memory. In rare moments of weakness he thinks that this is his payback. The universe supports invisible balance. He remembers all the women with whom Greg went on dates in the past year.

“How is Catherine?”

“We split up. It wasn't worked.” There is no hint of regret in Greg's voice.

For inexplicable reasons Greg has no children. They never discussed this issue and in medical records of Lestrade's family were not found mention of any problems with reproductive functions. From the side it looks as a great injustice. At this age Greg should bring up his own children and not to wander to his brother for the weekend to frolic with nephews.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. She is not what I need.” Greg stares at Mycroft.

 _Then what do you need?_ Is on the tip of his tongue but today Mycroft has no mood to take part in a philosophical discussion about women.

Greg is a responsive clever man but his distinctive feature is not in accumulated knowledge but in understanding. Greg notices a lot and grasps in a single flash and Mycroft knows exactly when to look away.

“Have you got a practice today?” he recalls as if by chance and pulls his Breguet out from his waistcoat pocket to clarify the time.

“Nope. Today I'm a bad midfield.” Greg puts his cup on the table and lifts his hands. “Can you imagine, I was climbing a tree to take a kitten for Rebecca and scratched my leg on a branch.” He moves away from the table and proudly shows Mycroft a deep scratch on the inside of his thigh just above the knee. “They even had to impose a couple of stitches. The doctor recommended me to take care of the leg for ten days.” Greg pulls up his shorts a little, offering to estimate the damage.

Greg has magnificent muscular legs. Mycroft always suspected it but now he’s got a visual confirmation. His heart is tap dancing, his hands are sticky with sweat. _Damn heat!_ Mycroft calls himself down, closes his eyes and takes a series of measured breaths. Disapprovingly shakes his head and grabs the teapot to hide nervousness.

“Are you fifteen?”

“Nonsense. It’ll be fine till a wedding day.”

“Just don't tell me you're ready to re-engage in the adventure called marriage.”

Now Mycroft is afraid to look into Greg's eyes, therefore he focuses on the way Greg brings the cup to his mouth, takes a sip and licks his lips thoughtfully.

“You know, tomorrow I'm celebrating my birthday with friends. Our usual pub at seven. You are invited.”

“Sorry I can't come tomorrow,” Mycroft habitually lies. He looks into the pattern on the side of his cup as if hoping to find an encrypted hint in it.

It's not the first time Greg tries to acquaint him with his friends but never insists. Why he needs it, Mycroft hasn't understood yet.

“By the way thank you for the present,” says Greg, pointedly lowering his voice and Mycroft feels an irresistible need to reduce the value of his gesture in Greg's understanding.

“Anthea assured me that its effect is absolutely stunning. It attracts women like a magnet. No one can resist.”

Either hint was too obvious or Greg noticed his confusion and made the right conclusions. Any other person from Mycroft's environment would readily believe that he has instructed his assistant to choose the present.

“So this cologne is valid only on women?” Greg asks innocently and smoothes hair with his palm, combing them back.

“As far as I know the manufacturer makes no guarantee,” Mycroft answers in the same spirit and smiles with the corner of his lips.

During the holidays Greg got tanned and changed his hairstyle. The long dark strands on the top of his head is now set off by short silver hairs on his temples. Mycroft thinks that this change of image is a childish act, is a peacockery, but secretly dreams to run his fingers through that tousled hair, feel the softness and volume of hair, pull Greg's head back and kiss him right on the lips.

“How did you choose the fragrance?” Greg curiously narrows his eyes. “Did you take the one that you like or the one that you think is best suited for me?”

“Of course the latter. It's your present.”

Mycroft is used to being an observer, used to building up an invisible barrier of indifference between themselves and other people. He didn't dare to make an exception for one particular person. So he feels more confident. Less vulnerable.

“Then you should evaluate the final effect.” Greg bows his head to the right shoulder and pauses in this position. “After application to the skin it always smells a little different.”

Mycroft traces with eyes the sculptural line of his chin, then stands up, leans over the table and calmly draws a breath in the vicinity of Greg's neck. And fights the urge to break every imaginable moral standard and trace with tongue the jugular vein from the collar to the ear lobe.

“Perfectly suits. As I expected.”

Today Greg looks different from the usual. Two top buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned and show a piece of tanned skin covered with sparse dark hairs. On his neck under the shirt hangs a red lace with three metal pendants, they bob with each Greg's movement, appear and disappear from sight. Mycroft doesn't even realize that he looks back to this point over and over again and waits for the next glare.

“These are my promises.” Greg stops joking and covers pendants with his hand. “This is the easiest way to remember them.”

Friends always talk to each other about the main thing. Mycroft can not be considered a friend if he refuses Greg in such privilege.

Mycroft looks at Greg's hands and swallows nervously. Greg always very actively gestures during a conversation. Sometimes it seems that if prohibit him to move his hands, he can't connect two words. It would seem to follow the gestures of the companion in a similar situation is the safest activity but for Mycroft it's the shortest path to disaster.

Because Greg has completely obscene hands.

Only their view generates dozens of shameless thoughts and desires. When poets praise the hands of their muses, they usually talk about music long fingers, delicate wrists and elegant hands. But Greg has solid fingers and a big palm that can not be suspected of fragility even for a moment. Mycroft takes a sneak look at his own hand and realizes that his fingers half as thick as Greg's. That fact makes Mycroft's thoughts melt and lose their sharpness.

The heat is in London for the second week. When will it come, the blessed coolness?

Today Mycroft doesn't manage to escape from the obsession.

Breaking this voluntary torture is a wise decision and Mycroft always considered himself a wise man, so he gets up from the table, cites the urgent worker question and hastily says goodbye to Greg.


	2. Chapter 2

Time is nearing midnight.

Mycroft sits on a couch in his living room. Alone. He reads the last page of the report then lays the folder with documents on the coffee table and takes off his glasses. He rubs with circular movements his aching with weariness whiskey and recalls Greg's hands. His fingers: tanned, mobile, with a neatly trimmed nails.

He imagines that Greg massages his head, then slowly moves down along the neck to shoulders, looses the knot of his tie and unbuttons the top button of his shirt. His palms slide over Mycroft's stomach and stop on the hips, they burn the skin even through the thick cloth trousers.

Mycroft throws his head back on the couch, slips below and takes half upright position. He brings to mind the shameless Greg's fingers and moves his knees apart.

The index is in itself would be a serious challenge. It'd tease outside, gently press and retreat, draw intricate spiral, waiting Mycroft lose his vigilance, and then without warning penetrate inside. Painful and sweet. Weightily.

Trembling, Mycroft puts his hand over the groin and squeezes his half-hard cock. Licks his lips.

_Come on! A little forward and back almost to the end. More. Like this. Deeper._

He unzips his trousers and pulls elastic band of his boxers a little down. And feels how the joints of an imaginary finger in turn squeeze through the tight ring of muscles. As little balls of different sizes strung on a flexible rod. The first is smaller, the second is bigger.

Mycroft grabs his cock and begins to masturbate to the beat of fantasy. Imagination draws him how unaccustomed to such manipulations anus reluctantly stretches, obeying confident onslaught, and then more tightly squeezes when a joint passes inside. How the finger moves out and flesh reaches after it, clasps tightly over its entire length, tense and flushed, and disappointedly releases, unable to keep. Mycroft quietly whimpers and bits his lips, rhythmically thrusts into own fist. He swallows to wet his dry throat and doesn't notice salty metallic taste in his mouth.

Bright feelings gradually fade and Mycroft mentally adds a second finger to the first one and it's... _Oh! It's so much._ Most of his ex-lovers have cock more thin than these two fingers in girth. _Good, that's it. Get plenty of lubrication._ Vulgar sloppy sounds come out from nowhere and cover low moans. The air scratches Mycroft’s throat and three shiny pendants on a red lace loom before his eyes.

Now Greg fucks Mycroft's ass with two fingers. Two beautiful thick fingers. And Mycroft trembles on the couch, indecently throws his hips up to meet them, tries to spread his legs even wider. He imagines that the pad of the middle finger perfectly bears against the right spot at the end of each motion and gently traces it as if examines. Periodically presses to extract another pearl drop of pleasure that'll roll down to the other and become a part of a thick hot mass, which has filled Mycroft's lower abdomen.

Mycroft slides the thumb over leaking head of his cock and shivers all over. _It's too much!_ He gasps and freezes, feeling specific aching heaviness in his balls.

“Shhh, slow down,” whispers in his head Greg's voice. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Mycroft lowers his hand obediently then squeezes his pulsing cock at the base and after a couple of seconds gently pulls balls down. Greg laughs husky throaty laugh and curves lips in a satisfied grin, exposing an even row of teeth. Mycroft draws forward to him in the hope of a kiss but finds only emptiness and disappointedly drops his head back on the couch.

So close and so unreachable.

Long sexual continence has its effects. Desire is seems immense but Mycroft understands that three such fingers in the first time he definitely can't take.

“Later,” Greg promises. “We’ll do this step by step.”

Mycroft nods and doesn't let emotions and common sense erase this fading picture.

He recalls Greg's thighs. Mentally presses his cheek against the smooth warm skin on the inner side. Then closes his eyes and kisses, licks, bites, slowly moving up. He finds spicy bulging vein near the groin and absorbs its rapid pulse with his lips. Greg is aroused. Wants him. Ready.

Greg's cock matched his fingers. Dark and thick, with silky pale pink head. Current of anticipation runs through the nerves and Mycroft straightens his trembling legs. _Come on!_

He relishes the mounting pressure. Despite the preparation Greg's cock barely squeezes inside. And it's stunningly beautiful. Mycroft's consciousness floats. It seems one more second and he'll dissolve into thin air. However sensations change after a few moments. His stretched to the limit muscles ready to howl and the pressure's not weakening. Panic hits him like a giant tsunami. _It’s big. So big! I can not take it. I can't!_

Raising his hand, Mycroft closes his mouth and whines. Pleasure mixes with pain and overloads his nervous system. Excitation runs high and Mycroft already struggling to control himself but at this moment Greg's cock overcomes the barrier and the degree of tension instantly subsides.

“You are amazing.” Greg gently removes the curl of hair from Mycroft's forehead. “Perfectly right for me.”

Mycroft's cheeks flush up and he purses his lips in embarrassment.

He is overexcited but doesn't intend to give up so quickly. He softly slides with his finger over the tip of the cock and catches the sensations. Greg drives into him at a steady pace, easily distinguishes the slightest signals of his body, picked up a perfect angle and force of the strokes.

Mycroft feels he's close and freezes. At the same moment Greg stops too. He pulls out to half so as not to put pressure on the swollen prostate. They are waiting for a wave subsides a little and continue motions. Then again. And again. The excitement spreads through his capillaries, fills every cell of his body and Mycroft slowly turning into one big bundle of explosive.

Oddly enough Greg is the first one who gives up.

Mycroft slows down on the edge again and hardly controls his naughty fingers that decide this time to push the matter through. He gasps and feels with delight as Greg's cock begins to shudder. These powerful uncontrollable jerks make Mycroft crazy. He imagines the view from the side, close-up as on the screen of a video camera. How muscles work under translucent skin which glistens from the lubricant, pumping sperm from the balls, filling Mycroft's ass to the max with hot tangy seed.

Mycroft closes his eyes tight and stops resisting.

As if feeling this, Greg moans with relief. He pulls out a little and then buries his cock to the root. And again. Second time. Third. After the fourth hard thrust Mycroft looses hearing, chokes with silent cry and almost faints. And comes. Comes. Comes.

He regains consciousness when cooled white streaks on his hand have already begun to dry. Awkwardly rising to his feet, Mycroft catches pants that are going to slip down to his ankles, then frowns discontentedly and stretches stiff muscles.

On the way to the bathroom he distracted thinks, it's necessary to wash out the proof of his promiscuity from the trousers before handing them to the dry cleaners or not. He doesn't ashamed of his behavior. No. Maybe a little. But he’s very hopeful that a similar incident doesn’t happen again because at such rate it won't take much time for him to move for permanent residence in bedlam.

***

Wrapped in a black silk robe Mycroft follows to the bedroom, on the go smoothes his wet after a shower hair. Unfortunate stains on the trousers he eventually has washed out but after that they began to look even more obscene.

 _I wonder what the Queen would think of the gentleman who so disrespectful handles with the suit from 'Dege and Skinner’?_ Mycroft mentally asks himself and shakes his head. _Probably nothing gratifying._

He jumps by a knock at the door and stops in the middle of the corridor. Hesitantly goes to the door and presses the button of video intercom. He immediately recognizes Greg's face at a small black and white screen and throws himself to open locks.

He knows that at the moment looks more than informally but fear and excitement makes him ignore this fact. After all Greg thinks they are friends and good friends are allowed to see each other in home clothes.

“Something happened?” Mycroft asks after he literally dragged Greg by the collar of his shirt in the hall and slammed the door. Folding his arms, he examines Greg from the top of his head to the tips of the shoes.

“Yes. I think something happened.” Greg absently picks at the bottom button of his shirt and then raises his head emphatically. “I'm sorry for turned up so late, just... I've been walking around and I thought... You know, I promised myself that I'll no longer waste time. I suspect you've noticed my awkward attempts to start this conversation and you are afraid that I'll destroy all important things that there are between us, but... Not so long ago I realized that I don't have eternity to play with semi-transparent allusions. All or nothing. Do you understand?”

Mycroft understands. Greg's feverish, restless eyes rush about his face, looking for support and encouragement. In love. Greg has fallen in love again. Mycroft envies his courage. Even after the betrayal of his wife Greg is not afraid again surrender to the flow of feelings, not afraid to lose. Mycroft feels tired and useless. Keeping the posture and face under this look is extremely difficult so Mycroft leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. Does he really look so lamentably? A worthless single bore. It's logically that kind-hearted Greg was afraid to upset him with the news about his new love. About a new important person that appears in his life. Perhaps Greg even will get married again and will invite Mycroft to the wedding. But friendship, what about friendship? Friends are always relegated to the background when a man in love.

Mycroft feels the movement of air in front of his face and then a touch of lips to lips. Gears in his brain click and firmly stuck. Greg kisses him hard but gently, begs for answer. Mycroft hears the silent entreaty, feels as Greg's determination melts with every second but can not move. He is stunned, disoriented. He has lost control of his body.

“Sorry. I shouldn't do this.” Greg steps back.

Mycroft opens his eyes and gasps for air. His lungs burn, his heart aches as if it's placed on a dozen invisible needles with each beat. Greg frowns wearily. He smoothes his messy hair with his hand and turns to the door.

“I suppose, I should leave.”

Mycroft is still out of his head but he manages to catch Greg's hand. He stares into Greg's eyes and tries to unclench numb lips.

“I suppose,” he says but hears only a muffled gurgle. He smiles confusedly and clears his throat. Gathers his strength and makes a second attempt. “I suppose… you should... stay.” It's hoarsely and not quite clearly, however, it seems Greg understands. Mycroft is eager to add 'forever', but does not dare. It’s too frankly. Mycroft is still afraid to betray himself, to tell how much Greg meant to him. “At least until the morning,” he whispers, taking a step forward.

He buries his trembling fingers into the hair at the back of Greg's neck and pulls his head a little back, chases the remnants of doubt away. He kisses Greg's parted lips and knows exactly with whom he'll spend the rest of eternity.


End file.
